


Dearly Departed

by havisham



Category: Original Work
Genre: Boarding School, Complicated Relationships, First Kiss, Ghosts, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Repression, Reunions, Treasure Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:22:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24497887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: Quinn never told his beloved former schoolmate that he loved him. But it's never too late to change that, even after death.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Repressed gay university student/Ghost of the man he never told he loved, Schoolboy with internalized homophobia/Beloved classmate who was expelled for indecency
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32
Collections: Original Characters & Original Works Flash Exchange May 2020





	Dearly Departed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theultimateburrito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theultimateburrito/gifts).



There was a ghost at the end of Quinn’s bed, trying to catch his attention. 

But Quinn wouldn’t give it the satisfaction, and turned his back to it. He’d heard rumors that the school was haunted, but it seemed unfair that his bed should be. 

But he couldn’t sleep at all -- he was still troubled by what had happened to Henry Ashland. When he sat up and looked around, the sad white shape that had woken him up was nowhere to be seen. 

That was quite acceptable. Quinn didn’t believe in ghosts, after all.

Quinn rose from his bed -- wincing at the coldness of the floor against his bare feet -- and grabbed his writing box from his desk. The moon was out and the long dormer windows flooded the room in watery light. Enough to write by, anyway. He had been turning over in his mind what he ought to say to Ashland. 

Ashland was not his friend — such was the gulf of two years’ worth of maturity that it made friendship impossible. However, Quinn admired Ashland immensely. Everyone did — that was why it was so shocking that the beloved school idol should suddenly fall into disgrace and expulsion. 

Quinn would have accounted himself the foremost of Ashland’s defenders, if anyone had been clear on _what_ Ashland had been accused of. He thought the other boy’s merits should speak for him anyway -- Ashland had none of the petty meanness and spite that was so common in schools like this. He had always been so kind to Quinn, from the very first moment of their meeting. 

He had never joined in the vicious teasing the other boys engaged in for anyone who was even a little different. Quinn didn’t quite know where the difference came in for him, except he felt it and so did everyone else. 

Ashland had, in fact, tried to stop it whenever it was in his power to do so. He’d never chidingly called Quinn ‘Queenie’ or ‘Dido’ on account of his ridiculed beauty, as some of the more sophisticated bullies had. It was foolish, anyway. A boy had no reason to be good-looking. 

Ashland, for example, was a perfectly pleasant looking boy. Dark hair, dark eyes. A kind smile. Ordinary. If Quinn should meet him again in five years, when they were both men, he doubted he would be able to recognize him. 

Despite such a hurricane of thoughts and feelings, Quinn’s letter to Ashland remained blank, save for the salutation. He could not put anything to paper and so gave up on it. Instead, he lay in his hard bed and stared at the ceiling. 

Idly, he wondered if the ghost would have anything to say about his current predicament. “What would you do?” he spoke aloud -- but not too loud, as the walls in the dormitory were very thin. 

But no one replied. 

*

A stack of letters greeted Quinn as he rambled through the door with all of the things that Professor Mowrey had requested from town. He was not surprised at the amount -- the mail was ever uncertain here. 

They had come here in late spring, as the Professor had been told that the great poet Shelby, whose work she had dedicated her life to studying, had secreted a cache of letters and writings in the walls of a crumbling Italian manor house. 

Quinn did not intend to make a career of studying Shelby’s works; he had fallen into this summer engagement almost by accident. He had thought a summer in Italy would be more stimulating than another summer sultifying in his father’s house. 

There would have been fiercer competition for the place, save Professor Mowrey was known to be an eccentric, and Shelby, a very minor poet. 

So far, neither the professor nor Quinn had found a single trace of any letters or work left by Shelby. If not for some of the descriptions and pictures painted by some of the poet’s friends, as well as some faded documents, Quinn would have doubted that they were even in the right place. 

But he was enjoying his time here -- the manor seemed as if it was outside of time, and the locals, when he saw them, were friendly. The food was, without a doubt, far, far better than what he was used to in England. 

Nonetheless, the outside world intruded. He sorted through his letters impatiently. Most of them looked as though their contents would keep, but one, postmarked from Paris and from his closest friend, Savitz, demanded to be opened. And so Quinn did, still standing at the old kitchen table. 

Soon, Angelina, who kept house for them, shooed him away -- she had dinner to make -- but Quinn hardly noticed her. He took his letters into the overgrown garden and sat down under a gnarled olive tree. 

Most of the letter was lighthearted things -- what everyone was doing, drinking and driving in the summer-- except one discordant note. 

Henry Ashland was dead. Savitz didn’t know the details or any of the whys or wherefores. He hadn’t gone to the same school as Quinn and Ashland had, so his interest in the matter was slight. The name, he said, had stuck with him from Quinn’s stories of him. It had been a sad case, and unfortunate to lose someone so young.

“I should have expected this from him,” Quinn said savagely, crumpling the letter in his hand. His anger was not for Safitz, but Ashland himself. But that anger was swiftly followed by wretchedness. He knew it was his fault that he hadn’t reached out to Ashland before. It was not for lack of thinking about him. Quinn often did, especially when he learned the reason for which Ashland had been expelled. 

Quinn knew many other boys who had carried on more boldly than Ashland ever had, but Ashland was unlucky — a scorned lover had apparently brought up his indiscretions to the headmaster, and it had been over for him. The rumor went that Ashland had gone so easily because he wished to protect another, unnamed boy.

Quinn didn’t know if this was true or not, but if it was, he hoped that boy was feeling wretched now. 

He certainly was.

*

Quinn woke up with a start to a ghost at the end of his bed. He stared at it for a moment before he blinked in recognition. He was not a man given to demonstrable expressions of emotion, but Quinn felt now a rush of feelings that made him want to close up his mind and go away. Regret, happiness and anger rushed through him and left behind some awful, unnamable feeling. 

Ashland had not changed very much in the seven years since Quinn had seen him. His eyes were still dark and sad, his face was pale and drawn. There was a streak of grey in his hair, but otherwise — his expression of fond patience was the same. 

Such an expression could be mistaken for condescension. It would help Quinn to think that it was. The war of his feelings ended. Anger won. 

He scowled and said, in the voice dripping with disdain, “Don’t you have family to haunt, Ashland?”

Ashland looked taken aback, as if he had expected warmer words of welcome to follow his appearance. Perhaps he was thinking how sadly Quinn had changed since last he had seen him. His face was still open. He was an dangerously expressive man. Then he shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. 

“I’m afraid,” his voice was too quiet to be heard, and so he raised it. “I am an orphan. There are no grieving people who long for me. Quinn, how have you been?”

“Oh, I … Well enough,” Quinn said, lying. “Are you going to be hovering beside my bed all the while?”

Ashland seemed to hesitate for a moment. Quinn patted an empty spot on his bed. “Sit down here and tell me why you’re here.”

Ashland did what he was bid, though it seemed to Quinn that he was hovering just above the surface of the bed. “I died three months ago and have been floating around the ether ever since. I thought there would be more — places for me to go, but it seems as though I have some unfinished business to take care of.” 

“How did you die?” Quinn asked, because he could not ask how it felt to die. That was the question that surely everyone wished to know the answer to. He also was ignorant of the particulars of Ashland’s death, though he suspected that some fit of heroism was involved. Ashland was the type for it. 

Shyly, Ashland admitted that he had been walking along the Bolton Strid, taking in the beauty of nature when he noticed a group of children edging too close to the water. The spring floods had swollen the Wharfe and the mossy rocks were slick with moisture. His alarm proved justified -- one of the boys slipped on the rocks and toppled in. 

Ashland took only a moment to decide his fate. He had jumped in and tried to save the boy. They had both been swept away. The Strid spared no one that came within its grasp. 

“I knew that no one survived going into the river, but I had to try. I’m sure you would have done the same thing in my place,” Ashland said. 

Quinn shook his head. “I would never be so reflexively heroic.” 

Ashland looked earnestly at him. “You underestimate yourself, Quinn.”

“And why did you come to me?” Quinn asked tentatively. 

“Did you know, when someone thinks of you intensely, that thought becomes an anchor to them? I followed it to you. You should be careful, Quinn. You don’t want to lead more things to you.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Quinn said, trying to wrap his blanket around himself. It bunched around him, going through Ashland’s thighs and back.

“What do you think I am, then?” Ashland asked curiously.

“A delusion brought on by Angelina’s spicy food.” Quinn flopped over and closed his eyes. “It’s not real.”

*

The next day, Quinn was duly checking off the places where Shelby could have hidden his papers, when Ashland appeared to him again. He pressed a translucent hand against the stone wall and whistled. “So many strange things have happened here.”

Quinn glared at him and tried to go back to work. After a few moments, because he couldn’t help it, he said, “If you are real — a true ghost, tell me something only Ashland would know.”

“You didn’t mind being called Dido,” Ashland said instantly. “You thought the story was romantic. You thought she did right, in her way.”

Quinn considered it. He had never told any of that to Ashland, but Ashland had been a good observer of such things -- what people liked, and what they didn’t. He inclined his head to accept Ashland’s comment. 

“Very well then. I can accept that you’re Henry Ashland, although the mystery remains why you should haunt me in particular.” 

“Does it?” Ashland said. “It seems very clear to me.” 

Quinn bristled at his tone. “You could very well be a delusion.” 

He avoided Ashland’s eyes. In the light of day, Ashland looked alive, although somewhat wan and tired. He leaned against the wall and looked around.

“The thing you’re looking for isn’t here,” he said casually. At Quinn’s raised brows, he clarified. “Not in this room, at least.”

“How do you know that?” Quinn demanded, but Ashland shrugged.

“I couldn’t tell you, I just know.”

“Communing with the spirit of Shelby, are you?” Quinn asked impatiently. 

Ashland smiled. “No. He’s not haunting this place.” 

“Professor Mowrey will be disappointed. She seems to believe this place was very important to Shelby.” 

“It could have been. Most people do tend to move on after they’ve died. The spirit world is more empty than one would expect. My mother used to go to seances, you know, when I was a child -- I expect in the hope of hearing from my father. There is nothing like that here -- those lines of people wanting to talk.” 

Ashland lapsed into silence and gave Quinn a meaningful look. 

“I’m going to search Shelby’s old workshop again. Come along with what you want, or continue your ghost business elsewhere.” 

Ashland came along. 

*

It was amazing how quickly Quinn became used to Ashland’s presence in his life. Professor Mowrey had suddenly declared that she was violently in love with one of the expatriate ladies who lived in Florence, and had decamped to woo her there. Quinn was under orders to keep searching for the now seemingly mythical cache of papers, until the first of September, when the manor would be surrendered to its new owners. 

Thus, Quinn had no company at all except Ashland -- and Angelina, who came and went as she pleased. It was not a bad existence, in truth. The Italian countryside was gloriously beautiful, and Ashland, not bad company. 

They would measure how far Ashland could leave the house, and then how far he could leave Quinn. The house had no significance for him, he could leave it at any time. Quinn, however, was most definitely haunted. 

Together, they explored the nooks and crannies of the old house, looking for Shelby’s papers. After a night of intense drinking and possible supernatural inspiration, Quinn took to digging the ground around the ancient olive tree. Ashland supervised, as he was useless with tools. They found a rather ugly putto that stared out at them with baleful, dirt-grit eyes. 

It was Ashland’s suggestion that they throw the statue into the pond, so Quinn did. 

Ashland seemed more alive and living in the hours from midnight to three o’clock. He would then appear on the foot of Quinn’s bed, wishing to talk. They would talk about many things -- Ashland’s life after he had left school, and Quinn’s studies. 

“I did think of writing to you, afterwards,” Ashland said dreamily, some time after the distant church bells tolled midnight. He was sitting on Quinn’s bed, as was his habit now, and Quinn stretched out -- by him and almost over him. It was too early to observe strict propriety now. 

“Why me especially?” Quinn asked, his curiosity getting the best of him. Ashland stared at him for a moment, his vaunted patience seeming to slip for a moment. 

“Why do you think?” he asked. “Quinn, surely you’ve realized by now…” 

“What?” Quinn sat up and looked at Ashland, his haunted dark eyes and his mouth, slightly open but not speaking the words he truly wanted to say. His heart was beating loudly in his chest. It was the only sound in the room, besides his breathing. 

“I was the other boy,” he said at last, blinking fast. “You didn’t fight the expulsion because you wanted to protect me.” 

“I knew that you didn’t think of me in that way,” Ashland said in a rush. “It wasn’t to protect you -- you were innocent of all that. But the rumors were so persistent and loud. I knew it would be better if I went away.” 

“I ruined your life,” Quinn said quickly, as the impact of what Ashland was saying hit him fully. “It was me.” 

“No, no,” Ashland said. “Peter, listen to me…” 

But Quinn wasn’t listening to him anymore. Eventually, when he looked up from his bed, Ashland was no longer there. 

*

The summer wound down quickly. Professor Mowrey returned, a disappointed lover. They concluded their research as the deadline approached, having nothing to show for it except the vague understanding of how and why Shelby could have been inspired to write what he had, in this beautiful, ruinous place. 

Ashland did not return. 

Quinn was in two minds about this. For one thing, he found that he missed the ghost’s presence terribly. It was lonely without him. On the other hand, Professor Mowrey did approach him and ask, delicately, if she should send him off to speak to an analyst, as she had noticed him muttering to himself on and off during the summer. 

“Why not ask earlier?” Quinn asked her bluntly, as they were eating figs on the veranda. “It must have discomfited you to be sharing a space with a -- an unbalanced person.” 

“You didn’t seem unbalanced. In fact, you seemed to be happy,” said the Professor, a little dismissively. “Who am I to get in the way of your enjoyment?” 

“Enjoyment indeed,” Quinn said grimly. “I don’t need to speak to anyone. I’ll be back in England soon and then no one can accuse me of being happy.” 

“What an amazing boy you are,” said the Professor. “Do you want any more of these figs?” 

*

It was the last night and Quinn felt restless to his bones. He was spending the last night sleeping in the same chamber that Shelby had used. It had the best views in the house, looking out to the mountains beyond. He could not sleep, and instead, he paced around the room and balcony. Distantly, the clock tolled for midnight. 

With a sigh, Quinn sat at his desk and took out a piece of paper and a pen from his case. He began to write his long-delayed letter to Ashland. It was not a long letter -- only two words, in fact, but as soon as he finished, he looked up to see Ashland standing in front of him. 

“Why did you leave?” Quinn demanded, putting down his pen. He didn’t care about the splotch of ink that marred his letter. Ashland shrugged helplessly.

“I thought it would be best to leave you alone,” he said, pausing as Quinn rose from his desk and stalked towards him. 

“Then why did you come back?” Quinn asked, coming close to Ashland -- almost touching him. 

“Because I didn’t want to be alone,” was Ashland’s answer. 

The fact that Quinn could kiss Ashland came as a surprise to them both. Ashland felt solid and whole against him for a moment -- he kissed him back wonderingly, before he seemed to remember that he was a ghost and disappeared, leaving Quinn to hit the wall and pull off a painting from it. 

Both Quinn and the painting collapsed in a heap. Once the dust cleared, he looked up to see Ashland peering down at him apologetically. 

“I’m sorry -- you startled me,” he said, offering a hand up. Quinn gave him a wry look and took it. Ashland’s hand was cold and somewhat insubstantial, but Quinn could feel it. 

It wasn’t enough to help him up, not really, but once he was on his feet, Quinn noticed an indentation in the wall. Instead of stone, there was plaster and bump where Quinn’s elbow had hit it. 

Ashland and Quinn exchanged excited glances with each other. Quinn broke open the hole and reached to grab a tightly wrapped leather pouch. In the light, he could make out the initials _A H S_. 

“This is it,” Quinn said. “I should get Professor Mowrey …”

“Yes,” Ashland said, draping his arm over Quinn’s shoulder. “It’s an amazing discovery. You should be proud of it.”

“I am, but —” Quinn looked at him. “Henry. You and I need to speak. Where have you been? I’ve loved you for so long.”

“Loved me?” Ashland said, surprised. “But I …”

Quinn kissed him again. This time, it was sweetly returned. Quinn took Ashland’s hand and led him to bed. He would tell the professor the good news in the morning. Right now, he had another long-desired treasure to uncover. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta, El! 
> 
> Ashland's death is inspired by [The Striding Place](https://loa-shared.s3.amazonaws.com/static/pdf/Atherton_Striding_Place.pdf).


End file.
